


goods and services

by qunsio



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aromantic Character, F/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Riding, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 04:22:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4905334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qunsio/pseuds/qunsio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raven has needs and, as per fucking usual, she has to take care of them herself. But maybe she’ll get lucky, maybe someone will ask nicely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	goods and services

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to just write self-indulgent dubcon pwp but the set up got kinda long and what can i say im a sucker for sad beat up boys and hot powerful girls

“You know I could help with that.”

Raven jolts and nearly tips off the edge of her cot. Without looking, she whips her hands from her pants and offers Murphy a slick middle finger.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“Fuck off.”

“Come on, I’ve been trying my best.”

“Try your best somewhere else.”

He’s silent for a moment, and Raven swears that if he chooses _this_ battle to fight her on she will wring his goddamn neck with her still-wet fingers. Eventually, the tent flap drops closed. Raven’s hand trails back down her torso, but she feels too weird to finish what she started. Fucking Murphy.

***

“So, has Murphy been weird with you?” Raven asks Clarke the next day.

Clarke slices off a chunk of an apple. “Not particularly,” she says. “Just the general ‘oh, Clarke, I’m trustworthy, come on, why aren’t you over it,’ bullshit.”

She brings the knife to her mouth, pops the apple wedge between her teeth. Sometimes, when Clarke is taking a break from negotiating and planning and analyzing, she pulls these offhand gestures that sucker punch Raven with lust. Clarke has grown sure of her body in the time they’ve spent on Earth. In these moments when Clarke is easy and confident, it’s a small wonder to get to see her strong thighs bracketing a log, or her hands wrapped around the hilt of a knife.

Raven spends a good deal of time thinking about those hands, those thighs.

But Clarke has only ever kissed people she was already at least halfway in love with. Raven’s not sure she qualifies. Raven’s not sure she ever wants to qualify for that.

Clarke finishes chewing and glances at Raven. “Has he been weird with you?”

On the other side of camp, Murphy’s hauling wood. The other kids on the physical detail lean against the woodpile, talking amongst themselves. They work between laughing fits. They’re friendly, familiar. Murphy hauls more wood.

“He walked into my tent last night,” Raven says.

 “Creepy.”

“Yeah.”

He dumps his wood in the pile near the other kids and they go silent.

“He do anything?” Clarke asks.

“Not really.”

Clarke shrugs. “Let me know if he causes any trouble.” She offers Raven the next apple slice. Raven takes it, with her fingers, not her mouth, and heads back to the shop before she does anything inappropriate.

Hanging out with Clarke always leaves Raven a little dry-mouthed and hungry. More so when there’s nothing life-threatening to divert her focus. She’ll go to the scrap metal pile, find something to tinker with for a couple hours, and maybe it’ll convince her hindbrain to think about something else.

She finds Wick at the pile.

“Hey,” she says. She leans against the counter of material he’s digging through. She rolls her head to rest on her shoulder, lets her hair fall to the side.

“Hey,” he says. He glances at her quickly, distracted by whatever project is floating in the periphery of his mind. He snaps up two jagged steel triangles, then quickly trades them for chunks of aluminum. He looks at her again, at her face. “Oh! You want to…?”

Raven definitely, definitely does.

“No. Just hanging out.” She picks up a piece of aluminum too, rolls it between her palms. It makes her hands smell bright and sharp.

“Sure,” he says, turning back to his metal too quickly.

Raven is so tired of this shit. She just wants to fuck.

She can’t figure out what’s up with him, only that he gets a little overcome with sadness every now and then after they fuck. He says it’s normal, that lots of people cry after orgasms. Raven knows crying, and she knows heartache. She’s not going to have sex with someone who’s aching for more of her before she even leaves.

A lifetime ago, when Raven was with Finn, she liked the longing looks. She held power, then, but it was a known quantity. When she felt overwhelmed with Finn, she would ignore him for two full days. Two would leave her refreshed, welcomed back by Finn’s pleading eyes and his soft mouth. Three would make Finn needy and annoying, one would do nothing for either of them. They had a system.

She doesn’t know how to handle Wick. He wants her, but he wants _so much_ of her. This shit, this pining will-we-won’t-we nonsense, it’s a study in uncertainty and she wants nothing to do with it, even if that makes her a cold, heartless bitch.

He plucks the aluminum out of her hands. Says, “Come to disparage my next project then?”

“You know it.”

“Follow me. Grab the pseutorch I made last week if you feel like actually being useful today.”

“Hilarious,” Raven says. She picks up the pseutorch _she_ made weeks ago and follows him.

***

She pulls Bellamy aside after dinner. “Please tell me you’re still good at fucking without emotional attachments.”

Bellamy looks at Clarke first, apparently unconsciously.

“You and…?” Raven jerks her thumb in Clarke’s direction.

“No,” Bellamy says, face hardening.

“Fuck, Bell,” she laughs.

“Shut up.”

“Trying to marry into royalty?”

“Fuck you,” he says.

Raven can’t stop snickering at his stupid enamored face. “I’ve got some moonshine in my bunk. Wanna get drunk and lament about how unrequited love fucked us over?”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She claps him on the back, and he starts walking to her bunk.

Two hours later finds them pleasantly drunk but no more advanced on the subject of love. They’re probably a bad match as meaningful conversational partners, but Raven’s always found the spaces between words more important anyway.

They’re drunk-rambling about people they hate, but they don’t start in on proper gossip until Murphy wanders in.

“Uh,” he says. He’s standing frozen in the open tent flap, probably letting all kinds of bugs in. He looks freshly bathed, which is unusual for Murphy, who is perennially mud-caked. His pale cheeks are a splotchy red from the cold outside.

Raven is too drunk to be angry, so she makes a spluttering _pbbt_ sound in laughter. “The fuck are you doing here?” she asks. Murphy’s mouth hangs half open at the sight of Raven, laying leisurely with her legs in Bellamy’s lap.

Murphy makes eye contact Bellamy for a second, and terror and mortification flood his face. He ducks out of the tent.

“What was that about?” Raven asks.

“He, uh, offered me a favor and he’s stupid and embarrassed about it now. Didn’t even cash in the favor he wanted in return.” Bellamy thinks for a moment. “Actually, he could probably do you that favor too.”

“A _favor_ favor?” Raven asks in horror.

“What are you, fuckin’ thirteen years old?” He giggles. “Yeah a favor favor. One might even call it an S-E-X favor.”

“With Murphy?” Raven asks. Bellamy shrugs. “How does that not contradict with your Clarke-is-my-one-and-only thing?”

“Shut up. It was a while ago. The Clarke thing didn’t start until a couple days ago.”

Raven raises her eyebrows. “You honestly believe that’s when it started.”

“I hate you,” Bellamy says.

“You’re the one who fell in love,” Raven says. She digs out her last half-jar of moonshine and passes it to him.

“Yeah.”

***

Raven and Bellamy stumble out of the tent late the next morning. They missed their chore round, meaning they have to wash all the cooking supplies if they want to eat breakfast. Bellamy offers to wash if she hauls river water for him, and they get to work.

Raven’s on her third and hopefully final trip to the river when she hears someone crying.

“Hello?” she calls. “Are you ok?” The crying stops immediately, but she follows the sound of the sniffling to a little rock outcropping. She finds Murphy, red-faced and crouching, tucked into a groove in the stone. She towers over him. He doesn’t move. His arms are wrapped around his knees, fingers gone white with how hard he’s gripping his forearms.

Raven feels sad on his behalf. She says, “This is a little pathetic.”

“Fuck off,” he says, his voice nasal from crying.

She rolls her eyes. Asks, “Why are you so weird around Bellamy?” He doesn’t say anything. Just glances between the pail in Raven’s one hand, the knife in Raven’s other hand, and the fly of her jeans.

“He says you offered him something,” she says.

He meets her eyes then, sharp. “Fuck off, bitch.”

A cold fury rushes through her. “You don’t talk to me that way,” she says. She’s surprised at how clean her voice sounds, at the calculated rage lining the edges.

He surges up at her. She can’t tell if he’s trying to attack or just leave his little stone alcove, but she pushes him back down easily with a hand to his head and a knee to his chest. He falls hard back into the rocks as her pail clatters to the ground. She leans into her knee and her hand, pressing him flush against the rock wall.

He sits, frowning, angry, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. His eyes flick to the knife in her other hand. He doesn’t try to fight. She takes her palm from his clammy forehead, puts her thumb on his lip. He’s handsome, in a kind of hard, ugly way, with his matted hair and his pale, heated face. He looks best like this, Raven decides, filthy and kneeling and a little beat up. He licks his lips, and his tongue swipes Raven’s thumb. She glances down. He’s hard, she can tell even through his jeans.

“You have something on offer?”

In the distance, someone calls, “Raven?” Probably Bellamy, coming after her for his river water. Murphy hears him too. Raven can feel his pulse pick up under her hand.

She leans down and grips his jaw. “Don’t move.”

Raven rushes to the river. She wades in a little while fetching the water to make up a feasible excuse for taking so long. She starts heading back the way she came, and meets Bellamy before he reaches the riverbank.

Bellamy laughs at her for falling in the river, but that’s fine. Raven hauls the bucket, focuses on keeping water from sloshing into her already soaked boots, and thinks about what kind of favor she might like.

***

Raven had expected Murphy’s half-assed apologies, but she didn’t expect his misguided attempts to redeem himself. Being universally hated and totally friendless could force a person to change, she supposes.

And, okay, Raven, she has needs, itches to scratch, orgasms to reach, et cetera. Murphy offered. Desperate, sad Murphy, who can’t think of any other way to get back in with the in-crowd than offering to fuck them. Honestly, if Raven agreed, he’d probably consider it a favor to him. Raven wants to think that that makes fucking him ethically sound. She knows it can’t be moral, though, because she can’t imagine Clarke would ever accept this kind of offer. No one can be good the way Clarke tries to be good, though. And Bellamy has taken Murphy up on this, and Clarke loves and trusts Bellamy, doesn’t she?

Ugh. No. There’s no rationalizing this. There’s nothing good or moral to be found in any part of this situation. Raven is not going to forgive Murphy without evidence of real growth and remorse, regardless of any favors. She just wants to fuck. She’s only hesitating because she’s afraid of feeling guilty afterwards.

Raven goes to the shop. She spends the rest of the day trying to grind these thoughts out between sheets of metal.

At dinner she sits with Clarke in the main cafeteria. Clarke’s got her thinking face on again, even though they aren’t in any danger.

“What’s up with you?” Raven asks.

“Uh,” Clarke says. She glances around. “Is it ok— can I ask, what were you and Bellamy doing last night?”

“Drinking and talking about you,” Raven says.

“Ha ha,” Clarke says. Raven raises her eyebrows. Clarke does not blush, but she straightens her back in an attempt to look more formal and powerful like she always does when she’s flustered.

“Why were you talking about me?” she asks.

Raven can see Bellamy approaching with a plate of food, so Raven picks up her own half-empty plate and says, “Ask him.” When she passes Bellamy in the aisle she claps him on the shoulder and wishes him good luck.

His face pales. He stops to grab Raven’s arm and grit out, “What did you say?”

“Chill, I just left you an opening.” She shrugs out of his grip. “Don’t be an idiot.”

She turns and finds Murphy sitting at a table by the backdoor, watching her. She winks at him and watches him flinch. He whips his head around to see if anyone else noticed, but everyone at his table is aggressively ignoring him, and none of them are looking in Raven’s direction. He looks back at Raven with an almost comical expression of suspicion. Raven grins.

“What are you smiling about?” Bellamy asks, probably trying to stall his imminent embarrassing confession. Bellamy follows Raven’s gaze and sees Murphy. Murphy flinches again. Bellamy clicks his tongue and raises his eyebrows at Raven. “Well, look at that.”

“Yep,” is all Raven says. She walks away, leaving Bellamy to his terrible romantic fate.

***

That night, Murphy’s in her tent when she gets back. He’s just sitting on her cot, waiting for her.

“Ugh, why are you like this.” she says. “Get off of my bed.”

She reaches out to drag him off her bed and he ducks beneath her outstretched hand. He stands up, carefully out of reach. There’s a scrape of mud from his boots on the floor, and a muddy patch on her cot too. She scowls at him. She just washed that blanket. He raises his hands, palms outwards, appeasing.

“Well?” she asks.

“I, uh. I’m— fuck.” He closes his eyes and starts again. “There’s something on offer.”

“Fine,” she says. “Take off your clothes.”

“Wha—”

“Let’s see what’s on offer, ‘bitch.’”

“I’m just trying to make things right,” he says. He’s looking down, trying to hide his genuine distress.

“Murphy,” she says. His attention snaps back to her, the hope on his face poorly veiled by his glare. She continues, “You’re a murderous psychopath. You shot me. My leg is permanently fucked up. You’re gonna have to put in some effort before earning any kind of forgiveness.”

She expects him to leave—she doesn’t care about his opinion, he shouldn’t care about hers—but instead he pulls at the hem of his jacket with shaking hands. He looks good like this, distraught and nervous and completely malleable. Raven finds herself waiting eagerly. She thinks she might be a bad person, in the end. She doesn’t care.

He continues taking off his clothes, slowly. Gloves, jacket, sweater, shirt. When he bends over to take off his shoes, she sees his skin has gone purple-green all over his back. Bruises, from earlier, the rocks by the river. She traces the darkest spots while he unlaces his shoes. She digs her fingers in suddenly, just to hear him grunt. He trembles under her hands, but stays quite still, making no move to stop her. Feeling merciful, she releases him. He exhales, hard, and continues undressing.

When he’s down to his underwear he stands, shivering in place. Waiting for Raven. He’s hard already. Raven smiles, watches him until he blushes all up his neck. She flicks off her lightbulb, leaving them in near darkness. Moonlight filters in through the blue material of her tent, making everything cool, dim, and soft at the edges. Raven toes off her boots and shucks her pants. She takes off her jacket and shirt too, leaving just her underwear on.

She takes a seat on the cot facing outward. She braces her feet against the stacked crate across from her and spreads her legs, the blanket rough against her bare thighs. With raised eyebrows and a pointed look at the floor, she beckons Murphy over. He falls to his knees and ducks under her leg to get in position.

Raven winks at him, then leans back on her elbows and lets him get to it. Her cotton panties are damp when Murphy pulls them to the side. She feels the heat of his breath a brief moment before she feels his lips and tongue against her labia. She gasps a little at the contact. He continues like this and Raven realizes,

“You have no idea what you’re doing.”

He pulls back to look at her, and normally he’d say something stupid or scathing to protect his dignity, but this time he sits quietly, his fierce eyes gone serious and thoughtful. His lips are a vivid red, glossy.

“Fucking cis boys,” Raven says. She sits upright to pull her underwear off, chucks it in the direction of her other clothes and braces her legs again. “Monkey see,” she says, sliding her index and middle finger between the lips of her cunt, “Monkey do.”

She closes her eyes. She starts with long, slow strokes up the length of her cunt, growing firmer with each pass. Her other hand palms her breast. She traces circles around her clit, lets out a shaky exhale. She teases herself, touching only just around her clitoris, letting the low baseline pleasure spread from her cunt to her thighs to her chest, until she’s feeling it all over. Finally, she brushes her fingers over her clit, stroking herself with torturously slow, barely-there loops of her fingers. Her body hums with pleasure, and she feels the sensation rolling inwards, pooling in her belly. She presses more firmly as she comes, but slows down even further, moves at a glacial pace, lets the orgasm spread through her limbs, inch by crawling inch. Her breathe stutters, comes out in hitching sighs. When she’s done, she lets her arms and legs drop. She knocks Murphy’s shoulders with her feet when her legs fall. She forgot he was there.

 She sits up to look at him. His eyes are blown with lust, and his underwear bears a distinct wet smudge.

“Enjoy the show?” she asks.

“Let me try again,” he says.

“That’s what we like to hear. Get up.”

She scooches back on the cot, carefully avoiding the mud splotch Murphy left earlier. Murphy climbs up tentatively, like he’s unsure of his welcome. She’s been telling him to fuck off for ages, and now, after showing him how to make her come, now he’s catching on that he’s not welcome here? Except that, as he settles between her raised knees with a determined look, he’s not exactly _un_ welcome here. She lays back, tucks her pillows beneath her ass to give Murphy a better vantage point.

“At the beginning be gentler than I showed you, then harder. It’s the second go-round.”

He nods and lowers his head. His back arches like a stretching cat’s, leaving his ass in the air. She feels his tongue part her lips. She moves her hand down to hold them open for him, and he looks up to nod in thanks. It unsettles Raven, such a casual, friendly gesture from Murphy. She settles her other hand in Murphy’s hair, nudges his face back where she wants it.

He draws the flat of his tongue from her wet opening to her clit in a single leisurely sweep. He repeats the same movement, going down, using the back of his tongue, hot and soft and wet, and she bucks into his mouth.

“Your fingers too,” she says. Then, “Wait. Show me your hand.” She loosens her hold on his hair so that he can back up a few inches and lean on one elbow. He gives her his hand. She examines it: smells clean, no dirt under the fingernails. “Good job not being a total slob. I trust you know what to do with those.” She throws up her own hand, index and middle fingers raised.

“Aye-aye.” He salutes her with the same fingers. She clicks her tongue and tightens her hold in his hair, pulls him to her cunt.

He does the sweep up with the flat of his tongue again, lingers just above her clit, missing it on purpose or on accident, it’s hard to tell. Then he starts sliding his fingers in at the same slow rate he draws the back of his tongue down, over her clit. She bites her lip and moans, full and low. She can feel his lips quirk in a smile.

He’s a fast learner and he follows her instructions well. He’s observant too, notices how the press of the back of his tongue against her clit makes her hiss in pleasure. She knows he notices because that first time he does it, he tries it again immediately after, and then he teases her for _ages_ after, never quite touching her clit. He uses his lips, experimenting. He sucks her clit and she comes like that, hard, and almost by surprise.

He pulls back too quickly when she comes, but he’s new and he did unexpectedly well. She deigns to offer him a smile and a loose thumbs up. She might see a shy smile tugging the corner of his lips too, but she’s distracted by the way his slick mouth shines in the dark of her tent, a splash of rosy glitter. His tongue darts out to lick his lips.

Before she knows what she’s saying, Raven says, “I’m gonna ride you.”

“Please,” he says. “Uh, I mean—”

“Ugh, shut up. Stick with ‘please.’”

“Whatever,” he says.

She waits, deciding to be a dick and make him say it again. She sits up and leans towards him, planting her hands on his folded legs. Their lips are inches apart, breath mingling together. “Well?”

He closes his eyes. “Please,” he whispers. She wraps her fingers around his cock through his underwear and he sucks in a staggered gasp. His mouth is lax and his eyes are soft, shuttered closed, not so mean and bitter.

“On your back.”

Murphy complies easily, rolls to lay on the cot. Raven edges his underwear down to his thighs and straddles him. She runs her finger up the length of his cock. It’s pretty, a pearlescent pink. Straight and thick enough to fill her fist when she wraps her hand around it, not so long that it will make it difficult to ride him. She’s pleased. She thumbs the head of his cock, listens to him groan.

She gets up on her knees and hovers over his crotch. He licks his lips in anticipation. She reaches down and carefully guides his cock into her vagina. They whisper _fuck_ in unison as she lowers herself past the head. She moves her hips minutely, exploring the stretch without sinking down any further. Murphy’s breath comes out in irregular pants.

“Raven,” he says. Her eyes flick to his. “Come on. Please.”

She smirks and flicks his nose. Murphy cocks his chin up. He says, “Fuck yo— _ooh_.” She sinks down on him. Raven hadn’t realized she was holding her breath, and she exhales through her nose as she bottoms out.

She starts moving immediately, seeking pressure at just the right angle inside of her. Murphy puts his hands on her hips, tries to meet her movements with thrusts. It won’t do. She takes Murphy by the wrists, puts his hands above his head where they can grip the edge of the cot.

“Stay there,” she says. He swallows thickly and doesn’t say a word.

She moves up and down the length of his shaft with careful intent, pushing down with a precise tilt of her hips. Warmth pricks at the surface of her skin. She braces her weight with one hand, seeks out her clit with her other. Heat rushes through her as each twitch of her hips sends mirrored pleasure up her body.

Distantly, she hears Murphy groaning, hears him wailing her name on every exhale, “Raven, _nhh_ , fuck, Raven, Raven.”

She slows down as her orgasm starts, lets it flood her senses gradually, wholly. Murphy breaks off at some point with a high moan, but Raven hardly registers it, so filled, so overwhelmed by her pleasure.

When she comes back to her body Murphy is there, watching her with keen eyes. His chest isn’t heaving anymore, but his face is still soft. She climbs off of him, settles onto the cot next to him. 

“You got mud on my blanket,” she says.

 He scoffs. “What am I supposed to do about that?”

 “Wash it, obviously.”

“Like I’m—”

“Unless you’re not interested in a second shot.”

He considers this. Turns to face her. He says, “I’ll do it if I can touch your boobs next time.”

 “Congrats, you managed to phrase that in the most virgin-teenage-boy way imaginable. You’ll do it if you ever want to touch me again,” she says.

He shrugs, closes his eyes. “Deal.”

“Nuh-uh, don’t close your eyes dipshit. You aren’t sleeping here.”

He glances sideways at her, sees she’s serious. He scowls, but swings his legs over the side of the cot nonetheless. He’s slow to dress, his limbs looser now from sex. When he pulls up his jeans, Raven can’t help but to smack his ass. He chokes out a laugh at that, caught too far off guard to manage a glare.

At last, he pulls on his jacket and mills over to the exit of Raven’s tent. He hovers there, unsure and awkward.

Raven says, “Don’t come back here without explicit permission.”

He puts his index and middle finger between his lips, snaps them out with a lurid _pop!_ and says, “Aye-aye.” He fires off another salute with those two fingers raised and disappears out the tent flap, letting in just the briefest night breeze with his departure.

Raven can’t believe him. She can hardly believe herself. She falls asleep quickly, and has no nightmares to speak of.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are much appreciated :)


End file.
